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THE INDIAN ANTIQUARY.
Thus thinking he walked to the nearest pyal, and lingered there till the bustle of the town subsided. Nor was it in vain that he stopped there. He overheard while there the following conversation take place between the master and mistress of the house at which he lingered :-"Console yourself, my wife. What shall we do? Fate has so willed it on our heads. May Brahmâ become without a temple for the evil that he has sent us. When the old king was living he appreciated my merits, and at every Sankranti gave me due dakshina for my knowledge of the Védas. Now there reigns a tyrant over our kingdom. I was lingering here with the hope that the son of Sivachar would one day come to the throne and relieve our sufferings. Now that such hope is altogether gone, I have made up my mind to leave this nasty city, and go to some good place where there reigns a king to appreciate our yogyatá (merit)." Of these words Sundara overheard every syllable, and these supplied the ghi to the fire of shame and anger that was already burning in his mind. "Let me try to win back my kingdom. If I succeed, I save lives. If I die, I die singly. May Paramesvar help me." So saying he walked out of the town, and passed the east gate. The night was as dark as could be, for it was a new-moon night. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and there were some symptoms of rain.
There was a Gaṇeśa temple on the way. As it was already drizzling, the prince went inside. till the rain should cease. No sooner had he entered it than he saw two men, who by their conversation appeared to be shepherds, coming towards that same temple. They seemed to have been watching their flocks near an adjacent field, and had come to shelter themselves from the rain in the temple. Sundara when he saw them, trembled for his life, and crept in. The shepherds sat down on the verandah, and taking out their bags began to chew betelnut. An idle lizard began to chirp in a corner. To break the silence, one said to the other, "Well, Ramakôn, I have heard that you are a great soothsayer and interpreter of bird sounds and lizard speeches. Let me know what these chits of the lizard that we heard just now mean. Tell me." Râmakôn replied, "This is news which I would never have revealed at any other time. But as no fourth person is
[SEPTEMBER, 1884.
likely to be here at this time on a rainy night, let me tell you that the prince of the town is now lingering here in this temple. So the lizard says. Hence I said, 'no fourth person.' I am glad that no evil hand has yet been tempted, though such a high price has been set upon his head. The very fact that he has lived up to this time unhurt in a tiger's domain augurs well for his future prosperity." Râmakôn had scarcely finished his speech when the idle lizard again made its chit, chit, and Râmakôn now asked his friend, Lakshmanakôn, for that was the other's name, to interpret those sounds. "This has rather a sad meaning for the prince. The Mantri and Pradhanî are coming here in a few minutes (nimishas), to consult on a secret topic. So says the lizard," said Lakshmanakôn to Ramakôn, and at once a light was discovered at a distance. "It is the minister's carriage. Let us be off. God only must save the prince." So saying, they both ran away.
The feelings of the prince inside were like that of a man who was being led to the gallows. The bitterest enemy of his life, the minister himself, was coming to that very place where he was hiding. "I foolishly accused my old guardian, Ranavirasing, and now I see his good intentions. How I am to be spared from this calamity Sankara only knows." Thus thinking, he hurriedly fled to the inmost part of the temple behind the very image, and sat down there, still like a stump, without even breathing freely, lest his breath might reveal him. He had ample time there to admire the sound knowledge of the shepherds in interpreting the lizard chirps, their simplicity, their honesty and truthfulness; for had they been otherwise, they might at once have caught hold of the prince and made him over to the tiger minister. True to the interpretation of the second shepherd, a carriage stopped in front of the Ganesa temple, and there came out of it the Mantri and the Pradhânî. Excepting themselves and, of course, the carriage driver and, as we know, the prince behind the Ganesa, there were no others there. Kharavadana and his subordinate chose that solitary place at the dead of night to hold secret consultations. The Mantri spoke first, and one could easily perceive from his words that he was in a fit of anger. "Why should the prince be
